


Right Beside You

by Ultirex



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Commission fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Swearth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultirex/pseuds/Ultirex
Summary: Recovery is a difficult process, but Swerve learns that he doesn't have to go about it alone.





	Right Beside You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Popodoki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popodoki/gifts).



> Commission for popodoki, who wanted Swerve to get some love and appreciation from his friends. :)

Skids was the first. Fitting, for him to echo his role in the entire thread of Swerve’s journey by kick-starting this particular chain of events. 

Swerve and Skids. Or maybe Skids and Swerve could have been more accurate, considering Swerve was often left admiring the back of someone who always had been several strides ahead of him. 

“Sleepover,” was all that Skids said before marching into Swerve’s hab-suite, a pillow tucked beneath one arm and a bundle of various other supplies for said sleepover cradled in the crook of the other. He was quick to make himself at home, tossing the pillow next to Swerve’s and depositing the rest of his goods on the end-table before plopping himself down on the berth. 

Swerve lingered by the door after it had shut, silent where he was normally quick to jump in with a round of boisterous chatter. 

Skids patted the empty spot on the berth next to him and said, “Party’s over here, Swerve. I hate to break it to you but there’s no being standoffish at sleepovers. Even spur-of-the-moment ones.” 

_What brought this on?_ was the first question that came to mind, and though Swerve was often inclined to speak before thinking, he’d found that lately his processor kept a tight leash on his mouth. And he could see where that line of questioning would go, could picture the conversations that would follow; a tip-toeing of words spoken in hushed tones as if being candid would make the elephant in the room all the more real. 

Of course Skids would know this, would be willing to invite it, even. But Swerve knew he would also be receptive to keeping this facade going for just a little longer while the wounds were still left open and raw, and thus he put on the grin that straddled the line between fact and fiction and had somehow become synonymous with his name.

“You know that the life of the party always arrives fashionably late,” Swerve said as he hoisted himself up onto the berth beside Skids. “Gotta keep the people on the edge of their seats.”

“Consider me titillated,” Skids quipped, managing to elicit a genuine snort of laughter from Swerve.

“So that’s the sort of party this is going to be, is it?”

Skids’ laughter was a pleasant rumble that managed to breathe some life into what felt like a desolate, cavernous hab-suite. He reached over and plucked something from his pile and said, “Turns out our little buddy Rewind has some connections. Managed to snag some Earth films here from a dealer.” Skids brandished the DVD cases with a flourish before doing the same with a fancy-looking bottle. “Got us some nice engex, too. Not that what you serve is bad, or anything. But this is the real deal. And snacks, of course. Never forget the snacks.”

An inevitable moment of silence feel as Skids waited for Swerve to take up the offer that he had presented. Or, Swerve couldn’t help but wonder, perhaps it was also Skids giving him the opportunity to take things down the much more somber, yet much needed path that consisted of long conversations laced with regrets and a pain that still festered far more than a shoulder wound.

Instead he chose to grab the bottle of engex and unseal the cap with a practiced hand and an empathetic pop.

“Oh, right,” Skids said, pulling out his phone, “before things get too crazy, I think that we should get a little something to remember this moment. Get in here, Swerve. We’re taking a selfie.”

Swerve shuffled right up against Skids’ side. “What, are you scrapbooking? You need a better hobby, Skids. Something a little less - you know, stuffy and old.”

Skids wrapped an arm around Swerve, positioned the camera and said, “I just want a little memento. You know, in case I get amnesia again. And so I can rub how much fun we’re about to have in Nautica’s face.”

“I knew there was an ulterior motive,” Swerve said with a snort, and as the camera counted down he found that smiling didn’t just feel like going through the motions.

**______________________________**

“And you see that one, right there?” Nightbeat raised a hand and began to trace along what was apparently a pattern that he’d picked out in the stars. “Looks a bit like a petrorabbit.” 

Swerve narrowed his optics beneath his visor as he attempted to make out the critter’s form from what looked like nothing more than a black canvass nonsensically splattered with cosmic freckles. “I don’t think I have the same eye for this as you do,” he ultimately conceded.

He’d never really seen the appeal to stargazing, but Nightbeat had been insistent that they spend an evening sprawled out beneath the massive overhead window on the observation deck that gave an admittedly breathtaking view of the endless expanse of space around them. 

Swerve was not known as the kind of guy to turn down offers. Doing so would only raise concern, he knew. It wasn’t a problem he would have considered prior to the incident, but near brushes with death had a way of inspiring vigilance in others. So he resigned himself to staring blankly above them while Nightbeat prattled on in the background, his chatter as lively and amicable as ever. 

“Look closer.” Nightbeat sidled over to where Swerve was laying until their shoulders brushed, before taking Swerve’s hand in his own and directed it just so, leaving Swerve’s line of sight tracking whatever anomaly in the stars he had seen. “There, see? It looks a little bit like it’s rearing up.”

The warmth from Nightbeat’s hand seemed to transmute down Swerve’s arm, leaving it to permeate the rest of his frame. “Uh, sure? Maybe if you reeeally squint.”

“Imagination, Swerve,” Nightbeat said as he extricated his fingers from Swerve’s, leaving his arm to prop up his head once more. “It’s your friend.”

Swerve faced Nightbeat with a cheeky grin, hoping to mitigate the warmth that still lingered beneath the derma metal of his cheeks. “So I can also come up with crackpot theories? All I need is a little imagination?”

“Laugh it up, Swerve,” Nightbeat said. “But for me? I can’t look up at this and _not_ wonder about all the mysteries of the universe that are just waiting to be solved. Even by a crackpot like me.”

At least the company was nice. And Nightbeat’s conversation did manage to keep unwanted thoughts at bay, even though a lack of stimulation had a habit of bringing such unpleasantries to the forefront of Swerve’s mind.

It wasn’t the same as drowning it out with the corny hijinks and laugh track audio of a sitcom, but it still worked its own wonders.

**______________________________**

It came as no small surprise to arrive at the bar as the night cycle began, as was his routine, only to find that Cyclonus was polishing a glass behind the counter. 

Tailgate, perched on one of the stools, drink equipped with a curly straw in hand, swiveled around as soon as he heard the door hiss open. 

“Swerve!” he greeted, chipper as ever and possibly toeing the line of inebriation. “Take a seat. Pop a squat. Put your feet up and take a load off.”

Cyclonus gestured to the empty stool beside Tailgate, his expression stoic as usual. Swerve glanced between the pair, regarded the lack of any other patrons yet, and took up that offer with a shrug and a grin that was only slightly guilty at the prospect of neglecting his bartending duties.

“Doing my job are you, Cyclonus? Careful, that means you’re also responsible for cutting people off. And this crew gets testy without its booze.”

“It’s nothing that I can’t handle,” Cyclonus said, managing a miraculous hint of a smile as if he were daring anyone to even try and challenge his authority. 

Swerve had no doubt that he was more than capable, and let out a slightly uneasy chuckle as he hopped up onto the stool next to Tailgate’s. “Easy, Cyclonus. We still want everyone going home in one piece.”

“You’re kinda like a caretaker, aren’t you, Swerve?” Tailgate said, followed by a hiccup that made his whole frame jolt. Cyclonus’ fond smile at the sight did not go unnoticed by Swerve, who couldn’t help but find it similarly endearing. “Make sure people get back to their habs safe. Make smart choices. We’d be lost without you.”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Swerve said as he gave the back of his head a sheepish rub. “Especially considering I’m the one that enables everyone to get smashed in the first place, right?” 

“This bar is more than that,” Cyclonus said. His gaze seemed to grow distant for a moment, focused on an empty booth tucked away in the corner of the room. “It’s brought people together more than any other place on this ship. This bar is like a living memory, Swerve, and we have you to thank for it.” He came back to the present in that moment, his expression oddly gentle, considering someone other than Tailgate was on the receiving end. “I would say that you’ve taken plenty care of all of us. So allow me to return the favor and handle things tonight.”

“Us,” Tailgate chimed in, giving Swerve’s shoulder a firm pat. “Let _us_ look after you.”

“Of course,” Cyclonus said. 

He and Swerve exchanged a glance; a mutual understanding of the fact that Cyclonus would likely be carrying a bubbly and nearly-incapacitated Tailgate home that night. 

“Y’know what?” Tailgate swiveled his stool to face Ten, who thus far had been silently wiping down the tables, and beckoned to him with an emphatic wave. “Ten, forget about that. Cyc and I will get it. You jus’ take a seat riiight over here and have a drink with us.”

Tailgate patted the seat on his other side in what Swerve assumed was supposed to be an enticing manner. Ten stood next to the half-cleaned table, wringing the rag between his hands and looking to Swerve as if afraid to take a step out of line, despite Tailgate’s overzealous insistence. 

“You shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Swerve said as he accepted the drink Cyclonus slid his way. “Come on.”

Ten’s face split into the closest approximation to a grin he could manage. “Ten!” 

Cyclonus gave Swerve a look of silent approval as Ten plopped down on a stool that seemed comically small, given his size.

Swerve looked down at the counter, which he could tell had been meticulously cleaned. He wouldn’t admit that Ten’s jubilant exclamation of his name made his drink go down just a little bit smoother.

**______________________________**

In Nautica’s fantasy, this was probably something akin to a grand ballroom rondo. In reality, Swerve knew - much to his dismay - that it was more along the lines of a child dancing with her father. 

He was standing on Nautica’s feet, their hands intertwined as they swayed to nothing more than the beat of Nautica’s humming. Her optics were closed, her lips shaped into a gentle smile. She looked the picture of bliss, and Swerve was just grateful that she couldn’t see the telltale flush coloring his cheeks. 

Her grip was tender and her frame pleasantly warm, and a chaste form of intimacy such as this was something that Swerve hadn’t realized he’d yearned for until he found it. 

“Would you like to dance?” Nautica had asked, and Swerve had taken her hand without considering the trifles of height differences or the nerves that always came with delving into novel experiences. 

She had a spontaneity to her that was infectious. Swerve was all too easily swept up in it.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Nautica murmured, never once losing her tempo. “I never was much of a dancer back on Caminus but I think I’ve developed a taste for it.”

“Any time,” Swerve said, and he knew that if she extended the offer once more he would accept it just as readily. 

Nautica was a force of nature - a tsunami, to be true to her name - but Swerve was only happy to be carried along in her current.

**______________________________**

“Nightbeat certainly recommended the right person for the job,” Rung remarked as he watched Swerve carefully lock the remaining few pieces of the model ship together. “Forgive me, but I didn’t know you could be so skilled with your hands.” 

“Comes with being a metallurgist,” Swerve said, and his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he focused intently on the very last piece and slid it home. “Aaaand done. I’ll take compensation for your lack of faith in shanix or flattery.”

“I’m afraid that all I can give you is my gratitude,” Rung said with a chuckle as he bent down to examine the completed model that now sat proudly on his desk. “What did you say the name of this ship was, again? I’m unfamiliar with it.”

“The _Millennium Falcon,_ ” Swerve said, puffing his chest out with a hint of pride as he was finally given the chance to show off his knowledge of Earth’s popular culture. “Captained by Han Solo: badass space smuggler, a friend to furries, and apparently a pretty shoddy dad.”

“I must admit that I’m pretty clueless when it comes to Earth media,” Rung said, “but this caught my eye, back when we stopped at Hedonia. I’m glad we finally had a chance to build it.”

Rung carefully picked up the model, cradling it in his hands as if it were a precious artifact and not simply plastic, and held it up in front of his shelf as if trying to judge where it would fit best.

“Now all we need to do is give it a proper home.”

Swerve cleared his intake. “I, uh, I actually have all the _Star Wars_ films downloaded. If you ever wanted to watch them, I mean. Get a little taste of Earth media, and all that. If you wanted.”

Rung paused his search, turning to regard Swerve with a look that seemed far more touched than Swerve would have expected, given the mundanity of the invitation.

“I would love to,” Rung said, and Swerve wondered if the ship’s resident psychiatrist also knew a thing or two about loneliness.

**______________________________**

“Everything’s looking good,” Velocity said as she gently prodded at Swerve’s shoulder and examined it with a pair of lenses that Swerve thought, quite frankly, made the medic look ridiculous. 

“Just like it was last time,” Swerve drawled, giving his shoulder a good roll once Velocity had pulled away. “And the time before that.”

“I know the constant checkups must get a little annoying,” Velocity said with a sympathetic smile as she scrawled something on a datapad, “but bear with me. I’ve got the expectations of First Aid riding on my shoulders, and he’s got Ratchet’s on his, and they’ve both been _very_ insistent that someone keeps careful tabs on your recovery.” 

Swerve groaned. “Trust Ratchet to still be a nag even when he isn’t here.”

“I’m sure he just worries, that’s all,” Velocity said fondly. “From what First Aid was telling me this crew is a bit like his baby, you know? And First Aid is like the anxious godparent that had to hand the crew over to someone that he barely knows. So you can’t blame him for worrying either, really. Even if it means calling me up in the middle of the night cycle because he has a ‘bad feeling,’” she said, accentuating that statement with air quotes, “that someone is forgetting to take their medication. Or that you’re avoiding an appointment,” she added pointedly. 

“You’d better get used to a little rebellion if you’re gonna stick around, Velocity,” Swerve said with a grin. “This crew isn’t known for behaving. I mean, have you _seen_ our captain?”

Velocity gave his cheek a playful pinch. “Yet somehow the medical crew managed to keep you all alive and well enough. I can get the hang of things without you trying to neglect your care.”

Swerve gave a theatric sigh of defeat as he jumped down from the examination berth. “Same time next week, then?”

“You know the drill.” Velocity finished jotting down her notes before setting the datapad aside and giving his back a gentle pat. “Take it easy, Swerve. Recovery takes a long time, even if it’s not always obvious.”

She didn’t have to elaborate further for him to know that they’d veered off from the subject of his rust infection. 

“I will. Thanks.”

**______________________________**

He found Ultra Magnus - no, Minimus Ambus, for there was no imposing suit of armor in site - outside of his hab-suite. Minimus appeared to be making an earnest attempt at appearing casual by leaning against the wall, but the rigidity of his frame didn’t exactly do him any favors. 

Swerve couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Your servos locking up on you, Mags? You might want to see Velocity about that. Give her someone to fuss over other than me.”

Minimus scowled and stood upright, clasping his hands behind his back in a manner that, stiff as it was, seemed much more fitting for his character. “I’m not used to impromptu meetings like this, but I felt that calling you to my office wouldn’t help the conversation.”

“Uh, sure.” Swerve side-eyed the door to his hab, which Minimus was stubbornly positioned in front of. “So, uh, is this just supposed to be a casual house call, then? You’re not here to tell me off and make me do scutwork?” 

“I wanted to thank you,” Minimus said, effectively shattering Swerve’s expectations with a single statement. 

“Oh.” Swerve scratched at his cheek as he mentally scrambled to recall any of his past behavior that Ultra Magnus of all people would consider to be laudable. “You’re...welcome?”

“I was referring to the music you gave me,” Minimus clarified. “It was a nice gesture.”

“Right, right, the mixtape. Don’t even mention it,” Swerve said with a wave of dismissal. “It’s a small thing, right? No biggie.”

“I suppose,” Minimus said, averting his gaze. He looked oddly helpless as he was, the sight too strange for Swerve to appreciate it. “It may have seemed that way to you, but I...” He coughed, his words momentarily coming to a sputtering halt. “I’ve found myself appreciating the smaller things more, lately. So I wanted to thank you.”

Swerve gave Minimus’ shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You let me know if you ever want another one, alright? I’ve got pretty much the entirety of Earth’s discography downloaded, it’s not a problem.”

“I’d like that,” Minimus said, and by Primus he actually managed to crack a smile and make it look completely effortless. “And, Swerve-”

“Hm?”

“I’ve struggled myself,” Minimus murmured. “I can’t say I understand exactly what you’ve gone through, but I’d like to think that I can sympathize, at the very least. So, if you ever find yourself needing someone...”

He trailed off in a rather anticlimactic end to his speech, but the sentiment was there all the same. Swerve paused midway through typing in his access code and turned to face Minimus, irreducible and emotionally vulnerable. 

It wasn’t the first time they’d been alone in a position like this. With Cyclonus’ words urging him on like a mantra, Swerve said, “You too. You’ve taken care of us a lot on this quest, Mags. Don’t be afraid to ask for the same.”

It was only later that Swerve would realize that, at some point during all of this, life had gone from simply making it through the day to ensuring that someone else would have something to look forward to in theirs.

**______________________________**

“So this is some sort of space epic, right?” Skids asked before tossing a handful of energon popcorn into his mouth. 

Nautica reached over Swerve, plucking the bucket out of Skids’ hands with a sly grin and said, “It was in that whole datapacket we got on human culture, remember? Apparently they used to go nuts over these movies.”

Skids scratched his chin, his optics looking slightly glazed and distant as he likely sifted through his mess of a memory bank. “Mm. All I remember is something about sand. Sand and having the high ground.”

“That’s about all your need from the prequels,” Swerve said, and he knew that it would be far easier to tune out the political babble when he was so preoccupied with being tucked between Skids and Nautica, their thighs and hands brushing against him as they both gesticulated wildly in the midst of their conversation. 

Rung was seated in a chair beside them, his knees and a pillow tucked up against his chest, and his gaze intently focused on the projector screen as words accompanied by a dramatic orchestra began to crawl across the cosmos. Ten and Minimus were at his side, the latter of which looked far too serious for a casual movie night as he fiddled with his mustache thoughtfully. 

Nightbeat arrived just as the prelude was beginning to come to an end, and instead of taking one of the empty chairs he opted for squeezing into what little space was left on the couch before draping his legs across Skids, Swerve, and Nautica, prompting the tub of popcorn to spill.

“Hey!” Nautica chucked the empty bucket in Nightbeat’s direction. “You owe us another batch of that.”

Nightbeat, looking thoroughly unapologetic, simply laughed and settled himself deeper into the cushions.

“Careful Swerve,” Skids murmured in Swerve’s audial, his tone hushed as the movie proper began, “looks like you might have some competition for life of the party.”

Swerve glanced around, considering the group that had gathered in his tiny hab-suite to watch what was probably considered a relic of human cinema, by Earth standards. It was quiet, save for the occasional murmuring of a comment - sometimes snarky, other times in genuine awe at what they were witnessing - or sip of engex, but it was a pleasant sort of quiet; the kind that arose when the presence of another was enough to trump the need for words, and not the deafening sort of silence that he found himself combatting with corny one-liners from sitcoms when he was alone. 

“I think I’m alright with that,” Swerve whispered back, and Skids gave his hand a squeeze of understanding.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know anything about _Star Wars._


End file.
